Vocabulary Woes
by Mark Geoffrey Norrish
Summary: Draco and Fred learn the value of a dictionary when one is persuaded to hire the other as a catamite. Rated T for pervasive cringe innuendo. Written for QLFC. About as crackish as it sounds.


AN: This was written as part of a challenge. I had to write either Draco/Hermione or Draco/Fred, which both violate one of my cardinal rules, "Never write anything completely implausible." Still, a challenge is a challenge. Sorry for reusing a scene from Honey, albeit in a slightly different setting.

… … …

"I need," Malfoy says, in the tone of one being forced to drink a deeply disgusting mouthful of medicine, "help."

From left to right. Neville Longbottom, unarmed but with a proud bearing with which he has never before faced the Slytherin prefect. Luna Lovegood, who is drawing doodles on a piece of parchment with a lead pencil and who gave Malfoy only a perfunctory glance as he walked in; at the bottom of her roll is a surprisingly lifelike sketch of an Umbridge-headed rabbit fleeing two centaurs whose human parts strongly resemble Neville and Luna herself. Ron Weasley, who despite his recent head injury knows enough to give Malfoy the glare he deserves. A break separates his bed from Hermione's. Fred Weasley, whose most recent memories of Malfoy were of his and his twin's flight from Hogwarts, and before that, at the Quidditch pitch. Ginny Weasley, who sneers, her hand on her wand, despite the explicit rules against magic in the hospital wing. Hermione Granger, who alone looks thoughtful. Harry Potter, who cannot muster even contempt for Malfoy.

"You're blond," Luna remarks.

There is a pause.

"Yes," Malfoy says, deciding to ignore her. "I've been disowned."

"This sounds remarkably like something which isn't our problem," Fred says perceptively.

Malfoy glares and proceeds. "_Because,_ you tits, I'm on your side now."

"Oh, in that case," Ron says, "shall we tell you all our secret plans? Or shall we wait until you have some parchment and can take notes?"

"You could borrow mine," says Luna, although she makes no move to hand it over, instead putting shading into her drawing.

"Look," says Malfoy, teeth gritted, "I heard what happened at the Ministry. There's going to be a war. Someone's already died, my father's been arrested, and that's just the start. I want out."

"You're a coward and want us to help you, despite you clearly not having actually reformed?" Ron asks.

"Ron," Hermione says, silencing him. "Malfoy, please, go on."

Malfoy and Ron glower for a moment. Luna watches for a moment, then moves down her parchment and begins the outlines of two partially-dressed male figures locked in a passionate embrace.

"My mother," Malfoy says at length, "was … displeased by my decision. My allowance is cut off, and if I go back there for the summer, I'm not likely to come back."

"So, basically," says Neville, "you want to stay with one of our families. But if we don't let you, we won't need to see you again next year. That's … too bad, my family never has any room."

"No, nor ours," Ginny says.

"I don't want _your_ charity, Longbottom," Malfoy sneers. "I want to make it on my own. I've been looking into scholarships."

Hermione raises an eyebrow: she already won the only good academic one.

Malfoy pulls a handful of pamphlets out and lays them over Hermione's bed; she leans forward and takes a handful. "There are three main categories: overachievers, affirmative action, and weird. I was hoping to win one from the second, since without parental support, I'm almost as poor as Weasley."

"Er," says Harry. "To get affirmative action, you usually need to be from an underrepresented group, like Muggle-borns and part-humans. You're a pureblooded white male from an upper-class family."

"Yes," Malfoy says irritably. "I was hoping one of you could help me find a loophole."

"I'll get right on that," says Ginny, not budging.

"Look," says Malfoy, "what do you think will happen if I don't get this? I'll have no choice but to go back to my parents. Would you rather I went back to the Death Eaters, or stayed neutral?"

"The thing is," says Hermione, "that there's a fixed number of scholarships paid, so if you do somehow get it, then someone deserving won't." She flips through another pamphlet, and her eyebrows both shoot up. "Uh, Malfoy? Why do you have this one? Is there something you haven't told us?"

"Which is it?" he asks.

"The Sir Danios Fellowship, 'to be granted to a young man who spends at least two months in the noble profession of catamite'."

"Oh, that," says Malfoy, "I'm not sure what catamite means, but it's a decent amount of money and if it's noble it couldn't be too bad. I was going to look it up later. Why, do you know what it is?"

"Yes," Luna says unexpectedly. "It means shop assistant. Also called a _puer delicatus_. You should ask Fred to hire you."

There is a pause.

"Why would I want to hire a git like him?" Fred asks.

"Because you'd love the opportunity to lord it over him all summer," replies Neville.

"And because I'd give it a much-needed veneer of respectability," says Malfoy. "The question is, why would _I_ want to work for a git like _him_?"

"Because no other Light or Dark family would touch you with a fourteen-foot pole," Harry says.

They consider this.

"It's only sales," Malfoy muses. "I could make business contacts …"

"Hang on," said Fred, "George and I aren't running a charity. We'll want half the scholarship."

"Half?!"

"It's not like you'll be short on money," says Fred. "You'll get a wage, too, if you're working."

"Which you'd have to pay any worker," Malfoy points out. "I'll give you one percent."

"We could hire any number of other people," says Fred.

"And none of them could offer you a Knut," Malfoy replies. "It's a seller's market for catamites."

Hermione has a sudden coughing fit. Harry pours her a glass of water from her bedside pitcher.

"Tell you what, let's go to the Owlery and discuss it en route," says Fred. "George is at the shop now, we couldn't both take the time to visit Ginny and Ron. We'll need him to agree on anything."

There is quiet while their footsteps fade away and Hermione recovers her breath and takes a drink.

"So," says Harry, "what does catamite actually mean?"

Hermione hands the glass back and finally lets her grin show. "I'll tell you what it _doesn't_ mean: girlfriends. Luna, I didn't know you had it in you." Luna gives a tiny Mona Lisa smirk and begins humming _Weasley Is Our King_.

… … …

On the ceiling, clashing secondary colours. On the walls, the same with blue and yellow. Between them, shelves of merchandise. Some of it bites. None of it should be eaten, ever. Only a few customers this early in the morning. The shop only opened a few minutes ago. Soon, it'll be packed again.

A woman in her late twenties approaches the assistant. She has a young boy by the hand; he keeps twisting to look at all the products. The assistant watches him carefully, but he doesn't try to grab anything.

"Could you help me?" she asks. "Jack's been begging me to buy him things, but I'm a little concerned that these things might not be completely safe."

"Don't worry, ma'am," says Draco. He's mellowed out somewhat, after a month and a half and three dressing-downs from one twin or the other; at the very least, he's stopped snapping sarcastically at every customer. "Everything sold here has been tested on multiple subjects and cleared by safety professionals." Two is multiple, and the twins know all about unsafe things.

"Oh, that's a relief," she says. "You must be one of the proprietors, then?"

"Not me," he replies, then, pompously, not expecting her to know the phrase, "I'm just the _puer delicatus_."

She makes a little choking sound. "I … see. Have you been … _that_ … for long?"

Malfoy picks up her distaste. "Not for long, but I think it's improved me," he replies seriously. "It's a learning experience you just don't get at school. Everyone should really try it at least once."

Her gaze flicks downward to her son.

"Uh, I think I left all my money in the Leaky Cauldron," she says. "I'd better go and get it. We'll be right back."

Malfoy watches her go with a genuine smile. Another soon-to-be satisfied customer. There really is something to honest work.

"Hey, Minion!" Fred yells from the counter.

Malfoy's beatific expression goes out like a light. "What, Weasley?"

"First, it's time for the mail. Second, I told you to address me as Master."

"Yes, Master," Malfoy calls back, then, in an undertone, "moron." Even so, he heads outside and takes mail from two owls. They didn't take long to learn never to enter the store.

He takes the mail to the back of the store, gives the personal letter to Fred, and opens the other.

"Angelina asking advice on hair product," Fred says. "Why on Earth she thinks I'd know …"

"This is from the Ministry," says Malfoy. "Scrimgeour is holding a meet and greet for young Britons of the year. You and your brother have an invite for being successful businessmen."

"Schmoozing?" Fred replies dismissively. "Pass."

Malfoy glares, lowering the letter. "How you ever sell any of this junk, I'll never know. Everyone our age who's anyone will be there. They're exactly the sort of people who people look up to; their word of mouth is worth twenty of any of those peasants out there."

"Haven't I just spent six and a half years seeing them, every day at school?"

Malfoy's right eye twitches. "Weasley, will you just trust me on this? Rich and successful people network."

Fred sighs, knowing Malfoy is at least partly right. "Hey, George. One of us needs to go and waste a night with a bunch of tossers."

"Have fun," says George.

"Wait," Fred protests, "if we work this into the division of labour–"

"– then you'll agree he's your catamite and therefore your responsibility," George replies. "Speaking of which, we need more supplies for the Snackboxes."

"You heard him, Minion," says Fred.

"Sure thing, Master," Malfoy says, with sixteen years of refined sarcasm.

… … …

Greengrass Manor. The hosts always volunteer to charm anyone who might later pay for their services. Candles and torches. Streamers. The Minister, already taking credit for everyone else's successes despite being sworn in under a month ago, taking a moment to forget the war with Voldemort. His two bodyguards, who certainly haven't forgotten. Young men and women, disproportionately represented by Slytherin alumni. Some older men and women, some with husbands and wives. Canapés, whistlewine, Taxian cheese. An undercurrent of tension. This may be a social event, but that doesn't mean it's supposed to be relaxing.

"Harry!" squeals Hermione. She runs up and gives him a hug. "Thank god! I thought it would just be me and Greengrass pretending to like each other all night!"

"Actually, I think I'm being quite forthright about not liking you," says Daphne, although as a well-bred host she keeps her smile fixed. She throws back another glass of wine and goes in search of a fifth.

"It took some arguing," says Harry, "but anything to get away from the Dursleys. How'd you get invited? I only was because I'm the Boy Who Lived. It even said so on my invitation."

"Well, I, you know, did rather well on my OWLs," says Hermione. "They gave me an advance transcript."

"You topped the nation?" Harry guesses. "With straight perfect marks across a maximum course load?"

"Actually, I only got EE in Defence," Hermione corrects.

"It's still better than me," he says. "Why were you talking to Greengrass? I can see Fred and Oliver Wood from here."

"Oliver stopped talking to me when I said I thought he was on the Chudley Cannons," she says. "Ron always goes on about them – shame he's not here tonight – and they're the only national team I know. I didn't realise it was a mortal insult. And Fred … I'm not sure I want to be involved with that."

"Huh?"

Hermione leads him a little closer to Fred, who is in Malfoy's tow. Malfoy is clearly in his element, introducing Fred to the wealthy and influential, smiling broadly and laughing at unfunny jokes.

"Matthias Mottenhawk," says Malfoy, making Fred shake hands with a wizard who looks to be in his mid seventies. "Fred Weasley, part owner of Weasley Wizarding Wheezes. I'm sure you've heard of them?"

"Young Draco," says Mottenhawk, "I never knew your family was on good terms with the Weasleys?"

"Oh, not really, but I've taken a position under him, as his catamite," Malfoy says importantly.

Hermione sinks her head into her hands. Harry stuffs a fist into his mouth to keep from laughing.

"Really," says Mottenhawk, licking his lips. "Would you ever consider a contract to an – alternate employer?"

"How much are you offer–" Malfoy begins.

"Oi," says Fred, "we've only just got him trained."

"Excuse me," says the middle-aged woman next to Mottenhawk, "but I'm not familiar with the term catamite. What do you do, exactly?"

"Pretty much whatever I tell him to," says Fred.

"Okay, I can't take it any more," says Hermione. Harry follows as she marches up, seizes both young men, drags them away to a quiet area, and whispers in their ears. "_That's not what that word means_."

"It isn't?" says Fred.

Hermione clarifies.

The two older boys stare at her. There is a long pause.

"Are you – are you sure?" Fred asks at length. She nods.

"That psychotic little shrew," Malfoy breathes, with the expression of one who knows that he would spend the rest of his life in Azkaban if he did what he is thinking, and that it would be a life well spent.

"Hey, Luna is _not_ psychotic," says Harry. "Or a shrew."

"I don't believe it," Fred says wonderingly. "Luna Lovegood got one on me? That's … I don't even … I think I'm in love."

"That's because you're an idiot," Malfoy explains. "What are we going to do now? If we admit the truth, we'll be laughingstocks, and I won't get the scholarship money."

"That's not the end of the world," says Fred.

Malfoy rounds on him. "Never. Ever. _Ever_. Come between a Malfoy and his money."

"Well," Hermione says lightly, "you could always pretend you knew everything all along."

They consider this. Fred gives Malfoy an appraising look. Harry and Hermione exchange glances.

"Oh, look," he says, taking her hand and pulling her away, "I think I see someone I know."

"Thank you," Hermione says, as soon as they're out of earshot. "I can't _believe_ I used to have a crush on him."

Harry glances at her in surprise. "You had a crush on Fred?"

"Hm?" she says. "Oh. Yes. This was back in second year, mind."

"I thought you were crushing on Lockhart then," he says.

Hermione heads straight over to a table of refreshments and downs a glass of whistlewine.


End file.
